Sometimes I envy travellers who can walk. They get to experience all the cool stuff, reaching every nook and cranny of a destination, provided security permits. They can pose for pictures and videos however they like. They can ride camels, climb ancient steps, or wander into tucked-away shops. For them, everything is just a Google search away. They can do all this while rocking trendy bell-bottom jeans. But, above all, they can book trips with a single click and easily find packages that suit their budget.
But for me and other travellers in a wheelchair who wish to explore the world on their own, it’s like a marathon or like being in a parallel universe – even though I’m using the same internet, on the same airplane, and headed to the same destination, but never really with everyone else.
Perhaps, though, other travellers might envy me. I get to experience destinations in a way few others do. My travel puts me face-to-face with the very core of a place. Whether I stumble upon a hidden gem while searching for a ramp or receive unexpected kindness that isn’t in any guidebook, my journey feels different.
I go through countless extra steps before booking anything. I contact hotel owners, ask for photos, and even share pictures of my wheelchair to spark ideas about accessibility. I request measurements and compare them against my own chair, inch by inch. Hours are spent staring at images, trying to connect the dots of whether a place will truly be accessible.
And despite all this effort, sometimes I arrive only to find the place, activity, or experience isn’t a fit. But in the ongoing battle between accessibility and enjoyment, accessibility always wins.
That means sometimes I miss out on the hostel vibe, the lively courtyards, or the rooftop views. I settle for the place with an elevator, even if all the fun seems to happen one floor below. It can feel a bit like being Batman, watching from the shadows instead of joining in.
Sweaty palms and sleepless nights often accompany the hours I spend digging through misleading travel articles written by privileged travellers who gloss over the realities of accessibility. A place might be listed as ‘accessible’ online, only for me to find out after countless messages with owners that it’s really not.
But there is hope, and travel platforms could change this. They could educate hoteliers about accessibility, require proof and accurate dimensions before properties are listed, and even hire people with disabilities to audit them. Until then, it’s a marathon of guesswork, anxiety, and crossed fingers.
Inclusion, to me, means being on the same level as everyone else and being able to enjoy life’s choices and joys equally. Sometimes that’s riding a camel or rolling into a museum. Sometimes it’s just meeting the camel and noticing its eyelashes, or watching dancers twirl while I imagine myself gliding across the floor.
One thing I’ve learned is that nature rarely disappoints. A beach, a mountain, a desert, none of these can see my disability or my wheelchair. Yet I still wish the earth itself could meet me halfway: sand softening enough to roll on, paths levelling just for a moment, making adventure easier to taste.
I don’t just pack clothes and gear; I pack intentions. A few simple hijabs, some tops, minimal makeup. I want to leave space for what I’ll find along the way – colourful skirts, spices, books, even fridge magnets. But most of all, I want to fill my mental bucket with memories: faces, flowers, voices, small details that stick.
Travel, for me, is not just about the place but about how it meets me, my wheels, my patience or my curiosity. Each trip is both an obstacle course and an invitation. A marathon, yes, but one that gives me glimpses of life I might never see otherwise.
Because once I arrive, the world has to deal with me, rolling, asking, witnessing, and claiming my share of its beauty.
